Part 11

Going to Lena's room, glad of the family house, he felt dirtier than ever, perhaps he could have changed, somehow, somewhere: it was Claude who urged him to see Lena at once--no, don't wait to change. Orville respected Colonel Ronde for manipulating this brief leave: would he be arriving in E soon? Walking through the living room, Orville was comforted by the rose grey of the carpet, the oval mirror, the bust of Chopin, the piano. Ascending the staircase he heard the downpour hit the roof.

Home ... yes ...

A priest confronted him at Lena's door and shook hands, saying nothing. Orville went in: her room smelled of medicines; her oxygen tank reared up alongside her bed; its red plastic handle grinned; her plasma bottle hung on its chromium hook--and nodded.

Lena's face was deep in the pillow.

"She's dead," the priest said in an unemotional voice. "She died about a half hour ago ... she was unconscious, then the end."

Then the end, Orville repeated to himself.

If my train had been on time? he asked himself.

He stared at the priest accusingly, rudely: had he done anything to help Lena? His fat bearded face was noncommittal. The man's eyes were as dead Lena's: such apathy.

Orville stepped back, stepped aside in disgust.

He was amazed at the beauty of Lena's yellow hair, flung about the pillow, amazed too by the athletic face, her open mouth suggestive of pain. He opened his mouth and shut it again and wet his lips with his tongue, blaming the war for her death. She had a lace handkerchief clenched in her hand ... maybe Amelie had died that way ... maybe Lena had been watching the rain trickle down her bedroom window. Her face was harsh: shadows added to the harshness. Hand on her bedpost, Orville wished he had slept with her: how could it have mattered?

Jeannette had come down the stairs as he descended. Hand sliding down the railing, he saw Lena as a kid, no, the two of them, screaming down the steps, to get outdoors, to play ball. He found Jean in the living room: he did not wish to talk: he wanted to feel that Lena was still alive: as he sat down and faced Jeannette she thought how it must be coming home to death, death in his home, death after the deaths of war: coming home was perplexing at best. Slipping her fingers into his, she tugged at him as they sat together on the sofa.

Claude was standing nearby.

"She's dead," Orville said to him.

Bichain heard Orville. The old man stiffened, and rubbed his beard: he became unaware of Jean and Orville: with bowed head he walked off, seeing the girl he had helped to raise, a woman of tantrums, woman of courage, love and beauty. Mumbling a little, he went to his own room, shut the door, and lay down, an arm flung across his eyes.

"Where's Aunt Therese?" Orville asked Jean.

"I don't know," she said.

They continued to sit there saying nothing, one lamp lit, no fires burning in the fireplaces, the room quite cold, the wind fumbling at the French doors. Slowly, as they sat together, he became aware of his stench: nobody wanted him: he had nothing for anyone: he clenched his stained hands, eyes toward the floor: this was no way to be, sitting beside her.

"They should have been able to save her," he said.

"They tried ... they tried."

"Who?"

"The doctors, several doctors were in and out. Yes, Orv, they tried."

"What were they, hacks?"

"Our best."

"Did they use antibiotics?"

"Yes ... injections ... they tried ... you saw the oxygen tank ... I came over often ... I know what went on in that room."

Orville covered his face with his hand and hid from Jeannette.

Jean bit her lips: death on the battlefield, death at home: these things were driving him farther and farther inside himself: they were taking him farther away. Unable to think of anything more to say about Lena, she thought of her own problems at the hospital, daily chores, the endless rounds--patients who required special care.

"Get Bichain to start a fire in the fireplaces," he said after a while. "I have to wash ... have to change ... must go now."

As he got up, he saw his aunt approaching him slowly, her heels tapping the parquet and then soundless on the carpet.

There was new puffiness about her face and she seemed to have lost weight; had neglected to re-dye her hair and grey and white strands hung about her ears and over her forehead. Wearing a blue ensemble, she carried a black overcoat and an umbrella--carrying it by its metallic ring.

"Orville," she said, and kissed him. "Have you just come? Oh, to have you here? I found a driver to bring Dr. Raoul to see Lena; he's gone upstairs to examine her. Just let me sit down for a minute ... Jean, dear, how is Lena? Were you upstairs?"

Jeannette was afraid to tell her of Lena's death: she waited beside Mme. Ronde's chair, glancing at her, glancing at Orville.

"I need a cigarette ... I'll have one before I see her," Mme. Ronde said. "Bring me one, from the box on the table over there by you--like a good boy ... Orville, have you seen Lena?" She was speaking unevenly, scolding herself for being lukewarm.

Orville reasoned: she'll soon know: it doesn't matter whether I let her go upstairs: maybe it will be easier to find out from the priest.

Jeannette drew a chair close to Mme. Ronde's chair, leaning toward her, she said: "We went upstairs to see her ... she's dead ... she died before we returned from the depot."

For an instant Mme. Ronde doubted Jean; she folded and unfolded her hands, asking herself why she would lie?

"I must go upstairs ... I'll see ... I..."

She got up, sat down, folded her raincoat across the back of her chair, and with slow motion movement got up again.

"I'll go upstairs..."

It was Christmas and Lena was racing down the stairs, waving a candy cane, shouting "_Joyeux noeel, joyeux noeel_!"

Standing motionless Mme. Ronde wept softly, handkerchief to her face, hating the thought of finding her dead, wanting to hope.

Jeannette glanced at Orville who was watching his aunt. She put her arm around Mme. Ronde's waist but she was not willing to accept assistance.

"No ... no..."

Facing Orville, she asked:

"Why did she have to die while I was away?"

"The priest was with her."

"The priest was with her!" she scoffed. "Who wants to die alone with a strange priest?"

She sat down.

Did the priest communicate with her: did she speak to him: was there consolation? He was in the room--to prevent people from talking: Bichain had called him in. Precepts: what had they done, had they stopped the war, had they defied Hitler? ... nothing ... nothing, there's nothing, no god ... wars ... cuckolds ... war ...

She wiped her face with a handkerchief, a man's handkerchief, her husband's, snatched from an overcoat. Mopping her face reddened it: it was more tragic, the red and the putty surface wrinkling, the eyes sinking in on themselves.

Her face shocked Jeannette as they waited, motionless. For Orville there was the distorted tie-in with Rousseau's world.

"Orville, help me, take my arm ... I'm going upstairs, best to go, not wait..."

She said nothing as they climbed the steps; Orville wanted to say a few words; he tried to re-see something he and Lena had done, so he could mention it to his aunt; it was almost as if he had never known Lena. Instead of visualizing or evoking her he recalled his last military involvement, the stress of the trip to visit Ermenonville; as they reached the top step, Orville said:

"I heard from Mother, a while ago."

"Ah," his aunt responded.

"She's all right," he said.

Words were automatic--out of the past.

Mme. Ronde wondered what it was Orville had said.

Lena's door was open: the doctor was talking to the young priest whose cropped head seemed more skull than anything alive. Mme. Ronde found her way to Lena's bed ... Orville found his way downstairs, rejoining Jeannette, saying over and over, I must go, I must remember to take a bath and scrub ... I must say ... I must tell Jean ... I must ... must say ...

She kissed him and said quietly:

"I'm going to the hospital."

"Yes?"

"I'm on duty, worried about a fellow there. Meet me early at the hospital, in the entry, say about eight o'clock? ... Okay? but if things don't work out call me ... no, no, you can't, the phone's out of order."

"The hospital ... at eight? I'll be there ... now, I have to take ... but how are you getting back? Let Claude drive you there."

"I have my raincoat and umbrella. It's not far, you know."

"Not in this rain!"

"Then I'll ask Claude."

He helped her into her raincoat; Claude came; at the door her red head disappeared under his black umbrella; then Orville let the window drapes fall into place.

Have to go upstairs ... rest ... sit on my bed ... take off these clothes ... rest ...

In his room he closed the door, sensing that the latch slid into place.

He was alone!!

Sitting on his bed he noticed the guns in their oak rack, the tackle, the reel, the bass above his bed; he thought he had seen them for the last time. Dragging off his shoes, he attempted to figure out what day it was: Wednesday? Friday? It didn't matter.

His socks on the floor, he thought of stretching out as he was: his head was mumbling about fishing gear: his eyes returned to the poles: beads of light twinkled on ferrules and reels. The transparent cover had fallen off one of the reels.

In the bathroom he kicked his clothes into a corner and listened to the water rushing into the tub, amazed by the jet: water, ordinary, hot water, wonderful water, swishing water. He tossed a washcloth over the side of the tub and watched it float before it became waterlogged. So, the heater was okay.

In the clear warmth he found rest: marvelous: marvelous to lie there: and the cake of soap, spinning! He had planned to scrub his hair and then dress but he knew he had to sleep: with the hot washcloth over his face he breathed deeply: he sopped it over his eyelids: reluctantly, he climbed out and half dried himself, stopping to finger the colorful towel, hold it out, count the blue and white stripes.

From his bed he turned out the lamp, and let himself go: it was like that, just couldn't be helped: a sort of a toboggan: the room stopped existing, the sheets gathered about his belly, legs, and shoulders: they felt warm: then, there was silence, and then--though he wasn't sure--someone was knocking, knocking insistently on the door, someone was speaking:

Lena? Claude? Jean?

" ... Supper's on the table ... It's getting late. Are you coming down? Jeannette's come back from the hospital..."

"Ah ... ah, I'm coming, let me get dressed ... I, yes ... let me get dressed."

He had not eaten in Paris: of course there was nothing available on the train; he swung his feet to the floor: yes, he was hungry: he listened: it was still raining: he heard the rain-quiet on the big house. In another moment, he laid clothes on his bed, old clothes from the wardrobe, and heard that other sound, the quietude of death.

Everyone's.

Switching on a second lamp, one on his chest-of-drawers, he fiddled with things in the top drawer. He unrolled a belt for his slacks. There was a tie that Uncle Victor had given him. The cufflinks were from his mother. He could still wear the old, brown alligator shoes: they went on comfortably. The sweater had been a favorite: he shook it out, slipped it on slowly, buttoned it, felt in the pockets.

When he came downstairs, Jean was in the dining room, arranging roses on the dining table, white roses in a crystal bowl, full blown roses, their petals shattering as she arranged them.

"Hi, Orville. Aren't you hungry? Did you get some sleep?"

He hugged her.

"Sure ... sure!" He exclaimed and kissed her, her face magical, the fragrance of roses also there: when had she appeared more beautiful!

"You look rested," she said.

"But I haven't shaved." He scrubbed a hand over his beard. "These old clothes of mine ... sure great to have them..."

"Sit down, my dear."

She had put on a blue serge, lace at the throat, the lace in a broad, open pattern of fully open poppies, very provincial, the ensemble nineteenth century.

"Is Aunt Therese having supper?"

"It's late ... she's gone to bed ... she didn't want any supper."

"Has she sent for Uncle Victor?"

"I don't know. I hope he can come ... she needs him. I hope I can help her ... I want to do all I can."

Somehow her calm came as a surprise: or was it simplicity and her concern that surprised! He sat at the table, thinking of the new way she combed her hair, curling it on her neck and over her ears and temples. Tiny costume jewels clipped each ear.

"How has it been at the hospital?"

She sat across from him, saying:

"We work in shifts ... I'm in on some of the surgical cases ... they come in fast ... POW's ... civilians ... officers ... it's the Nazis we resent..."

All the magic had gone from her face; her sentences were staccato; she leaned on the table, apprehensive--troubled by gigantism of the war: thoughts of Lena confused her: she wished to reach a clearer understanding of Orville and his future.

Annette served, greeting Orville in a hushed voice: obviously, she had been crying: her face seemed a gnome's face from some cathedral altar or reredos. Nervous, she acted more like a newcomer than one who had been with the Ronde household for years.

As he ate, Orville felt out of place: the familiar napkins, fork, knife, plates and goblets became unfamiliar: so were Jean in her serge and the surrounding silence: his mind screwed about, circled, picked at itself, fled somewhere, wanting assurances.

"Was it bad out there, bad most of the time?" she wanted to know, troubled by the silence and his grim expression, hoping to break through.

He was afraid to remain silent, afraid to reply: the immediate world seemed to be beyond the windows, kept there by a mere sheet of glass: the past was unreal, thin, another sheet of glass: the wrong word might shatter both: and yet he talked, talked about the Corps, and as he talked he attempted to conceal his hate and his killings.

"Tell me more about yourself," he urged her.

She shook her head.

It should not be this way, he told himself.

He thought of her hands, how they hovered over her coffee cup and silver, fragile fingers--not for any Corps. They were meant to help, help the wounded, help children. His own fingers--he glared at them, seeing the grime under the nails. They could not help. Concealing them under his napkins, he shoved them between his legs: tomorrow I have to clean out the grease. Shave. Wash my hair.

"They have such good things to eat here, at the Rondes'," Jean said. "While Lena was ill I was here almost every day."

Squab ... peas ... souffle ... chicken ... omelette ... ham ...

"Umm!" he exclaimed.

The rain was moving about.

He stared at Jean's hair--the auburn, the copper.

As she turned her head the colors changed: hers was a dignified head, heavy eyebrows, smooth forehead, thin nose, good head, loving ... her lashes were darker than her eyebrows.

"Don't look at me like that," she objected earnestly, misunderstanding him.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Men glare at me in the hospital," she said.

"It's nothing," he said, frowning, laying down his knife and fork. Have I been staring at her in some crazy way? He forced himself to continue eating; he had not eaten much but he was ready to leave the table. Again he questioned love, how long did it last? A man's love for a woman, a woman's for a man, a child's love for his parents? Life was not much at cherishing love: it had lost that gift if it ever had that gift for any length of time. Now, for love to endure very long it had to mount a machine gun.

A switch clicked in his brain: a small gate opened: a Sherman tank roared through the opening: a farm was burning.

After dessert and coffee, they sat in the living room where Claude had fires blazing, lamps and candles lit. Lena's angora, curled on a floor cushion, was fast asleep. Orville stroked him and he rolled over and yawned and stretched: upstairs a door slammed. The mantel clock chimed delicately: rain was making slow sounds.

Orville sat close to Jeannette on the sofa and the warmth of her body, the warmth of her hands and the fires made him shut his eyes: nothing was wrong; then she asked her disturbing question, that old question, as though in great pain.

"Why do we have to die?"

She was remembering remembrances of London and Wisconsin, remembering her father who had often said that death was not enough.

"... Hardly a question ... doesn't it evolve out of the medieval ages, Jean? I guess they were asking that during the Crusades. During the Inquisition. Sir Walter must have asked it. Joan. Maybe Christ?

"An important question ... but for some of us there's an answer: we die to escape hell. I've been wanting to escape it. Our inquisition ... can't we call it that? ... it's not something we cherish ... death is a way out. You know that..."

"I shouldn't have asked ... I know better ... sometimes it seems there ought to be a way to live without tragedy ... I want to make life worthwhile for you, Orv. Back home. Together. I want it to be like that."

He smiled a smile of thanks and love.

"I still think about Rousseau because I was brought up thinking about him. Ermenonville's his shadow ... I grew up in that shadow. You want to make life worthwhile for us ... he wanted to make life worthwhile for the world. He was a brave guy--a fighter. You know ... he said civilization is a disease. As the war hounds us, we see he was right. He was a man of reveries ... I've wanted to be a man of reveries."

It seemed to Orville that Rousseau's philosophy was symbolized by the white tomb on the island of poplars, by the swans on the Petit Lac. Men paid their respect by pausing there, confronting the empty tomb.

Jean snuggled closer to Orv.

"Rousseau says we're slaves to our laws and thinks we can free ourselves by respecting nature, making life simpler. Mom and I thought that too; that's why we moved to the States ... we thought we wouldn't have to kowtow to state or church or..."

Orville tasted his own slavery as he talked.

"Men still want to get rid of Rousseau ... too dangerous ... when you read his _Confessions_ you see how he feels ... Me ... I like his _Reveries_ ... maybe because he finished them in Ermenonville..."

Lapsing into silence they listened to the house and rain sounds.

Having read Rousseau's first chapters recently, she thumbed through thoughts as they listened together. Firelight washed the ceiling, polished the side of the grand piano. Someone was going up the staircase--thoughtful steps. Servant voices sounded, then faded. A log sent up brilliant sparks and then flared into saw teeth of orange and red.

The cat rubbed against Orville's leg.

"I started out living pretty sanely ... at Cornell ... then I fell into the war trap..."

"It will end, Orville dear. We'll be free soon."

"I wish I thought that."

"We must think that."

"Can luck begin once more? And why should you and I be lucky? Tell me that. Don't tell me that somebody always is ... a lot of somebodies are not ... I won't buy that guff."

Deep in his thinking he was convinced that he would not survive: the conviction slapped him across the face: there it was, in the wood and sparks and smoke. Getting up abruptly, he lit a cigarette, offering Jean one.

Now he knew why the Chopin bust expressed mystery: its mystery was death, death for those who have any kindness in them. Poor Chopin, so long an exile, always dying, starved for love, always composing ... Part of an etude rattled through Orville as he walked the floor: his mother was sitting at the piano there, playing. He squinted at the marble and the hooded eyes squinted back at him and he walked the length of the room.

Jean sat with her chin on her hand, wanting to enjoy a movie in Senlis--something sophisticated or humorous. She missed Chuck: he would be glad to take her: they had been ardent movie buffs. She felt that he would not have killed himself if she had been around to care for him, read to him, help him go for walks. She felt she should have remained in the States ... then, again, she saw the injured in Europe.

Of course Orville and I could attend a movie in Senlis, away from death. Tomorrow? Tomorrow they will carry Lena out of this house.

As Claude drove Jean to the hospital, he told her what Lena had meant to him, saying it well, saying tomorrow will be a rough day.

In the morning he and Orville carried Lena down the staircase to a pickup truck: the undertaker, a sickly man of fifty, with a grey beard, braided straw hat, and shabby clothes, was apologetic:

"... Pardon, Monsieur, the hearse wouldn't start ... I think, a little later, for the funeral, I can get it started, yes ... I had to borrow this truck. So little gas ... I wasn't sure I could come..."

As Orville covered Lena on the truck floor he heard what was being said: he was not interested: drawing aside the blanket he had a final look, a long look, seeing Lena when kindness was kindness, when responsibilities were nil: fun, that was Lena: they felt they were more than cousins: slowly folding the blanket over her he was keenly aware that he was folding it over many things.

In his room he buzzed a reel on one of his Swiss rods: it seemed alive, waiting for a bluebottle fly. He opened his creel, thumped it, unhooked a couple of tempting flies and dropped them into the basket. Raising the lid of his aluminum fly box he grinned:

Jesus ... all those beauties! Peacock quills ... cock's hackle ... crow wing feathers ... spring, summer, and autumn Nonettes ...

Strewing flies on his bed he checked them one by one: no rust: such colors!

With a pair of rods, a hatband of flies and his creel, he stole down the rear stair and out of the house: there was not much wind ... it was cold but not too damn cold for Jean: she would be there, at Rousseau's statue, in the village.

She was to meet him at eleven--a change in time.

Eleven ... eleven-twenty ... eleven-thirty!

Saying good morning to several villagers, he half recognized a few of them.

He eyed bird droppings on the _citoyen's_ bronze shoulders: purple droppings, blue ones, yellow ones. What was the name of that opera he had composed? But there, there she was, bustling, a rush basket on her arm, her red hair blowing.

She had gotten out of her hospital uniform and was wearing corduroy and sweater.

"Hi, Orv!"

"Hi, kid! You're late, according to my sundial," he said, smiling, wanting to josh her.

"Oh, our cook was slow fixing our lunch ... he got into some kind of dither. You know how cooks are! ... Just wait till you see what I've got here in the basket!"

They kissed, crooked their arms together, and strolled out of the village, along the Nonette, the sun breaking through onto the stream: they did not walk far: he knew a fishing spot by an old ruin: among the willows were regal chestnut and poplar and pine: brown leaves cluttered the path, most of them soggy; it was as if nobody had walked there since the days of Napoleon.

They cast from grassy embankments, from muddy flats, and from tiny sandy beaches. She was as clever with her casting as he: it was Wisconsin casting upstream versus New York casting downstream: what marvelous, marvelous flies, she exclaimed.

"I didn't know you're a pro at tieing."

Her face in the leafy sunlight was half-shadow.